


Reason's Prisoner #4: Time is Out of Joint

by cretkid



Category: West Wing
Genre: Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cretkid/pseuds/cretkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let us go in together; / And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. / The time is out of joint: -- O cursed spite, / That ever I was born to set it right!--" Hamlet I:5</p><p>Continuation of a set of stories set after "The Fall's Gonna Kill You"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason's Prisoner #4: Time is Out of Joint

"Time Out of Joint"  
===============

 

"Light up a cigarette already and calm the fuck down."

Glen glanced up from his fierce concentration and looked at the woman behind the bar. "I don't smoke."

"Then why are you playing with a pack of cigarettes?" Tara snapped the towel she was holding at his nervous fingers.

"Someone left them here." Glen dropped the cellophane wrapped package and pushed it as far away from him as possible. "Nervous habit."

"I can see that. And now you're making me nervous. Keep that away before there's tobacco crap all over my bar."

"It's not your bar. You only work here."

"Yeah, you won't work here for much longer if you don't get your head out of your ass and start thinking clearly. The last thing I need right now is to explain why Table 4 got the Pasta Primavera instead of the Shrimp Scampi. I got you this job; don't fuck it up."

"Thanks for the confidence." Glen dropped his head on his crossed arms and sighed heavily. His fingers started to dance rapidly on the bar.

"What the hell's got you so nervous?"

"What doesn't? I'm flunking school. My parents are going to fucking flip when they see what a colossal screw up I am. And the only thing keeping my head above water is the fact that I have this job, which is pretty fucking pathetic when you really think about it. My entire wardrobe consists of white button down shirts, black slacks, and this butt ugly maroon apron."

"Yeah, and you've got ring around the collar," Tara replied, tugging at his shirt.

"C'mon. We make jack, the tips are lousy, the clientele suck."

"Speaking of clientele--" Tara's head bobbed towards the door.

Glen looked up and watched as the hostess steered a couple towards one of his stations. She was tall and picturesque, like something out of a black and white movie. He held his hand at the small of her back as the hostess led them through the restaurant, looking very much the part of the dour but intelligent suitor that the heroine always chose over the dimwitted pretty boys in those film noir flicks.

"Play your cards right," Tara was saying as he stood, "and you'll make double your tips with this guy. He's been in here before. Leave him and his date alone, and you'll go home happy. Trust me."

"Showtime." He straightened his tie and apron front, made sure there were no stains showing on his smock or shirt. He patted his pockets for his pad and pen checked his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

 

 

 

 

Toby took CJ's coat and scanned the low pillar for the brass hook that he knew was there. He had not worn a jacket since the beginning of the baseball season; as the official start of spring, the winter coat went into hibernation. She had already taken a seat in the booth, leaning heavily against the back wall and rubbing the bridge of her nose. He sympathized. The day had started with a headache and had ended with one as well. It was nearly 11 PM and neither had stopped for a second, let alone a meal.

At quarter after ten, CJ had walked into his office with her coat draped across one arm, had nearly closed his laptop on his fingers, and said. "Food."

"Do you want to ask the others?" he had asked. He had known at least Sam was still in the building, and if his hearing had not failed him in the past 18 hours, then he had distinctly heard Josh bellowing after Donna not too long ago.

"No. Car. Go. Now."

That declaration at least had narrowed his options about where they were going for dinner. The food would be flame kissed and not fried, the drink would be wine and not beer, and the music piped in from ceiling speakers would not be of this century or the last. That by itself would eliminate running into the Bobbsey Twins and any of their following.

Toby had not yet sat down when their waiter started across the room. It was another reason why he liked this place; the servers wasted no time in getting you what you wanted. There were no menu items per se, but a list of specials that he had seen listed in the paper earlier in the day.

As Toby took his seat opposite CJ, he slightly nudged her with his foot to get her attention. She looked up; he nodded towards the young man approaching their table. She sat up, and pasted on a tired but attentive smile.

"Good evening. My name is Glen, and I will be your server. Our specials tonight are a lobster ravioli in an alfredo sauce, swordfish steak in a lemon sauce served with freshly roasted vegetables, eggplant parmesan served over capellini, and a filet mignon in a bordeaux mushroom sauce with jumbo shrimp scampi. Can I get you something to drink while you decide? Our wine specials are -- "

"No need," Toby replied, and nodded to CJ.

"I'll have the eggplant parmesan."

"And for you, sir?"

"The steak. And two glasses of your red wine special."

"Thank you. I'll put your order in immediately and be right back with your wine."

"Thanks."

Toby folded his hands on the table and regarded the woman seated across from him. The booths were high enough that no one could see them unless they were standing in front of the table. CJ rested her head against the back of her seat without slumping. If he had to guess, the only thing keeping her upright was the thought that someone in the press pool would have art of her curled in the booth, despite the relative privacy of the restaurant.

"We didn't have to come here, you know," he said, waiting for her eyes to slide open.

"If I go home, I'm going straight to bed. And tomorrow I will wake up with a headache for not eating today. Nah uh. I started today with a headache. I've started too many days with a headache. That will not happen tomorrow."

"And if it does?"

"Then I am hiding under the covers." A small crease of a smile lighted her lips and her shoulders shook with gentle laughter. They needed a little laughter these days.

Toby fingered the linen napkins, studied the reflection of light off the polished silverware. "We have the ACLU thing tomorrow."

"We weren't going to do this."

"What?"

"Talk about work."

Toby didn't remember making such a promise for this evening, but decided to play along. "How can we not talk about work?"

"By talking about something else," she replied behind a yawn.

"For instance?"

"I don't know. I hear scientists may have found the missing link."

"And all this time I thought he was in the office just down the hall."

 

CJ laughed in spite of herself. She leaned forward just as the waiter brought their drink order to the table.

While he took a sip, she played with the stem of her glass.

"I see Josh is looking over his shoulder again," Toby said, mimicking her gestures with his wine glass.

"Donna dropped by my office this afternoon to inform me of my unintended part in her plan to drive him insane."

"At least some things are getting back to normal."

CJ smiled and rolled her neck. He knew she still had a headache from the way her forehead crinkled as she moved. At a different time and a different place, in a different lifetime, he might have wanted to try and do something about it other than taking her out for something to eat.

"The thing went well today?" He couldn't help but talk about work. There was nothing else between them that he was willing to broach.

She started to nod, but he noticed the slight wince as she rested her chin in her hand. "Yeah. Seeing that you dumped me with refereeing the Presidential Grudge Match with only 15 minutes notice, I suppose it could have been much worse."

"It's not my fault Seth Gillette threw a tantrum about our proposed changes to his changes of the Blue Ribbon Commission ideology." He took another sip, and considered asking the waiter to bring the entire bottle to the table.

"It's called compromise."

"I don't think 'compromise' is in Gillette's vocabulary."

CJ held her head in both hands now. "You could have watched as Mutt and Jeff tagged teamed the President on trivial events in American history while they were supposed to be prepping him for tomorrow night's speech."

"Please tell me someone actually prepped him."

"Yes, we did. Eventually. I think Sam, Josh, Ed and Larry take much too much enjoyment out of enacting the roles of various members of Congress, the Press, and every lobby you could possibly think of. The scary part was when the President got in on the act."

"And Mendoza's thing?"

"He wasn't too thrilled when I ambushed him with the question about Judge Venre. I thought you were supposed to talk to him."

"I did. I told him there was the possibility that racial profiling might come up during the question and answer period. Apprised him of the fact that the New Jersey State Senate and the Department of Justice just finished a joint investigation, and that he should be prepared to answer some questions. Mentioned in passing that Mendoza was very interested in the outcome, especially if articles of impeachment are declared. Leo said it wouldn't be a thing."

"But it's going to be a thing. It's the American Civil Liberty's Union we're talking about here. They just staged a major protest against the California Highway Patrol last month. Someone is going to ask a question, and we better damn well have a good answer."

"Yeah."

He wasn't surprised by the vehemence behind her response. Everyone had been on edge for the past two weeks, since the President had disclosed his medical condition to first the staff, then the nation. The monthly poll had been run weekly, and the numbers were all over the place. They had to be very careful about what they said and what they did. It was hard enough to work under the watchful eye of a not-so-grateful nation. It was harder still when that watchful eye turned suspicious.

Toby let out a frustrated sigh. HHe He didn't want to talk about the 45 minute argument held between him, Leo and the President over how much of a 'thing' this could grow into, given that Mendoza supported Venre's position, and Mendoza himself was an outspoken opponent of the practice of racial profiling. Leo was trying to keep everything on an even keel. Business as usual. They had done nothing morally abhorrent by not disclosing the President's condition earlier, and that was the story they were sticking to when the full court press started.

He noticed the crease in CJ's forehead inching deeper by the second. He switched tactics; maybe he could talk about something other than work. "Whose bright idea was it to have him speaking on a Friday night?"

"Don't go there, Toby." She took a sip of wine.

Toby was tapping an inconsistent pattern on the table. "He's going to be unbearable."

"Really. This close." She held two fingers less than an inch apart. "There will be a wine colored stain on your shirt, and I will not tell you how to get rid of it."

"He's going to complain about missing some sporting event. Cricket, or synchronized swimming."

"And I notice there's a Yankees game on tomorrow night."

"Well, there is that." He wouldn't meet her eyes, knowing that he would break into an uncharacteristic laugh.

"You know that station you watch constantly will be re-airing it later that evening anyway."

"But he will make a point to ruin the score for me."

CJ did laugh out loud. "Oh, yes, the Toby Ziegler communications blackout. 'Mr. President, can we go home now so Toby can watch his precious Yankees lose again.'"

He ignored the jab at his favorite team. "I take great pains to avoid the news and the sport scores the night of a game when I can't watch it, and that man must ruin the anticipation," he replied, stabbing the table with the blunt end of his fork.

"I don't think you should be talking about the President that way."

"What's he going to do, ground me? And that would imply you would have to tell him."

"I'll save that information for a special occasion." There was a mischievous gleam in her eye.

"And what might that be?"

"I'll tell you what, since you're so concerned I will tattle on you, I'll trade that card in for a player to be named at a later date."

Their food arrived as Toby muttered, "Now I know you've been paying too much attention; you just made a baseball reference."

"I'm not a total nitwit when it comes to sports, you know. Just don't ask me which team Who's-he-whats-it plays on or which league uses the designated hitter. I know the fundamentals."

"I never claimed you were a nitwit," he said, playing with his food. Without looking up, he added, "At least not about sports."

She threw him a dirty look, and he thought cunningly that had they been in a bar, she would have thrown something with a little more substance.

They ate silently for a time. Toby took the opportunity to look around the restaurant. It was late, but the tables were curiously empty for a Thursday night. He frequented this particular place when time allowed him the luxury of a dinner that was not made in the Mess or packaged in a cardboard box. He noticed their waiter sitting at the bar, talking with the young women tending the wares. The bartender he recognized from other visits. She nodded to him and continued to put freshly washed glasses away.

The music coming through the hidden speakers was Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. He thought the choice appropriate, given the climate within the White House in recent weeks. It was a rallying cry during the Napoleonic Wars; maybe it would have the same effect nearly 200 years later.

Halfway through his steak and shrimp he had noticed that CJ was playing with her plate rather than eating off of it. None of them had had much of an appetite after the announcement, but given that it was she that approached him about dinner, he assumed that she had been hungry.

"Don't make me pull out the artillery," he said, taking a sip of wine. He caught the eye of the bartender and pointed to his wine glass. She had served him often enough in this place that he knew she would send over the rest of the bottle.

CJ brought her head up, knocked from her reverie. "Hmm?"

"I will call Abbey if you don't start eating."

She harumphed, knowing it was an empty threat. Though he was pleased to see that she had picked up her fork to feed herself rather than rearrange the food on her plate. "What is she going to do, call a babysitter for all my meals?"

"You threatened to tell the President about my baseball thing."

"Fetish."

"Preoccupation. And that's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"I don't remember now," he lied. He was concerned, he knew how she could get. If it took an order from the First Lady, he would gladly sacrifice his time to be the babysitter in question.

"I don't think you had one to begin with." CJ folded her napkin on the table and leaned back in the booth.

It wasn't that he doubted CJ could take care of herself. That was far from the point. However, he had known her to lose sleep and appetite during times of stress. Andy could lose weight at a phenomenal pace when she was besieged on all sides, and he imagined CJ was not much different. The last thing they needed, he needed, was for CJ to get sick.

He put his fork down and leaned back as well. Their server was at the table with the bottle of wine.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Ziegler?"

"What if I were to say yes?"

"Then I would say you're doing a piss poor job of it."

He topped off her glass, though it wasn't more than a sip drained. "How is your father? I never asked after you got back from Napa." He filled his glass again and picked up his fork.

"Good. He's lost a step or two since last I saw him, but he still gets up at the crack of dawn to go fishing."

Toby was happy to see that she had resumed eating. "So he hasn't lost that much mobility?"

"No. The medication he's on now controls that pretty well now. Only when he's tired do his hands visibly shake. He spends all of his free time tying flies."

"I didn't think he fly fished."

"He doesn't. He ties flies because he can." She shook her head at his perplexed expression. "I don't try to understand the logic behind it either."

"But the doctors caught it early, right?"

She nodded, and he noticed that she was visibly relaxing. "I suppose it's a blessing that it was cold enough to ice over the sidewalks that year. For all the bitching he did for it being cold you'd think the world was going to end."

"Any problems with the arm?"

"Not that my father will own up to. He still feels stupid that he slipped and fell and needed three screws to put his elbow back together. But the progressive loss of balance at least got him to check in with a neurologist. And now we know about the Parkinson's."

"How long ago was he diagnosed? I forgot." He didn't; in fact he clearly remembered the phone call he had received when she had to cancel dinner plans with him and Andy because she needed to get to the hospital when her father slipped in the first place. There was a skittishness to her voice that he had only heard a few times in their long friendship.

"Seven, six-seven years ago."

"And he's doing fine now."

"Yeah."

"Good." He waited until she started eating again to return to his food.

CJ pointed her empty fork at him a few minutes later. "I know what you're doing. I'm on to your ulterior motives."

Toby shrugged his shoulders and continued to cut his steak. "I have no such thing."

"Yeah, plausible deniability."

After a time, when he noticed that she wasn't going to eat anything more from her plate and her eyes were starting to droop, he called for the check. When it arrived, he grabbed it while she fished in her purse for her wallet. As she looked up from her search, he had already placed his charge card in the till and passed it to the waiter.

"Dinner was my idea," CJ protested.

"Yeah. Your point being--"

"I should pay."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I've already given the waiter my card," he said, pointing to the bar.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

"You're not that quick on the draw when it's Sam or Josh."

"No. But I pay for Ginger and Bonnie when I eat with them."

"They work for you, and you should for the hell you put them through."

The check arrived and he signed the slip, leaving a generous tip. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Afraid I'll tell everyone how old you really are?"

"I walked into that one, didn't I? Feeling better?" Toby sipped the last bit of wine and set his glass aside.

"Much." CJ's eyes were closed again, but he knew the headache was gone.

"We're going to have to go through all of this again tomorrow."

CJ looked at her watch. "You mean later today."

"Whatever. We have to be back to work in less than seven hours."

"You just said an evil word. And here I was having a good time."

"If you want a good time, we could go roust the others from their dens at the White House."

Brow raised, CJ scowled at his deadpan expression. "I am going to sleep."

"Spoilsport. Let's go. You okay to drive?"

"Yeah. But let's just sit for a few minutes more."

 

 

 

 

Glen was sitting at the bar, a plate of pasta with garlic butter sauce in front of him. He twirled a bottle of tonic water near his plate as Tara wiped the rest of the bar glasses clean.

"Looks like you'll get to call it quits soon," she said, attention directed to the only couple left in the restaurant.

Glen looked over his shoulder as they stood. He watched as Dour and Intelligent helped Tall and Picturesque with her coat and again placed his hand near the small of her back as they left the restaurant. He held the door open for her, and they walked out of his line of sight.

"I'm only going to be here in another twelve hours from now. That's not exactly incentive." He stabbed at his pasta a few more times before dropping the fork in defeat.

"No classes tomorrow?"

With a frustrated sigh, he replied, "Why the hell should I go? It's not like I'm going to pass now. Exams start next week."

"Ah, yes, the dreaded exam week. I remember those times fondly."

"Bullshit."

"Well, I graduated, you haven't yet, Mr. Fifth-Year-Senior-I-Started-School-Late-So-Pity-Me."

"And where have you gone with your degree, Ms. Spartypants."

"That's Doctor-Wanna-be-Smartypants to you."

Glen rolled up his sleeves and went to bus the last table. "Fat lot of good that degree in Medieval Studies did you now. Meet many knights in shining armor here?"

"No. Too many pissants to step over. They don't want to muddy their boots."

"What say you, we go somewhere and talk about anything that's not work related?"

"You buying?"

"I was thinking someplace that didn't require money."

"'Kay." She slipped under the partition between the kitchen and bar and grabbed her coat. She called to whoever had been left in the kitchen that she was taking off for the night.

He waited for her near the door, held it open for her. As they stepped onto the street, he placed his hand at the small of her back.

 

END


End file.
